


His lance was keen

by LiveOakWithMoss, TheLionInMyBed



Series: The Scion of Kings [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ...as you could imagine, AU where Gil-Galad is Fingon and Maedhros' adopted orc son, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Tattoos, implied nsfw, is Fingon a parrot head? discuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: Elrond hears the stories behind the King's tattoos.(And his parents.)
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Ereinion Gil-galad
Series: The Scion of Kings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937857
Comments: 44
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another story from many moons (years of moons) ago, that follows on our AU where Gil-Galad is the adopted son of Fingon and Maedhros - and also an Orc. Everything that ensues is significantly less tragic than canon, so you're welcome.

“-And _this_ one is for the Limlŷg ford of 567. Three hosts gathered upon those banks in mail as silver as the water, and the banks lay as thick with spears as reeds.” Gil-Galad flexed one massive bicep and the eel writhed in its blue-inked river. “The negotiations took hours but they ended without a drop of blood spilt, and the town there flourishes yet.”

Elrond smiled, tracing it from tail to fang-filled mouth, with eyes in place of his fingers - there were liberties one did not take with kings, however jovial. “The singers don’t tell of that feat.”

The king’s smile revealed a mouthful of white fangs, more jagged than the eel’s. “My uncle has tried, but there isn’t much of a ballad to be had in a battle not waged. Still, _I_ know what my victories are.”

“Which was the first?”

“This one.” Gil-Galad wore a loose tunic and parted it at the breast to bare grey skin and whorls of dark ink. An abstract design, but the meaning was an easy one to guess. 

“The Union.” He had seen similar markings on orcish corpses, when he was very young, before the second Siege began in truth. He had seen them upon living orcs as well, about the citadel, and seated upon his council - Lady Orcobal’s face was half black with them. 

“As much my fathers’ work as mine, though they will not credit it. I was all of thirteen and they fought horribly.” For a moment Elrond thought he meant the battle itself, but Gil-Galad’s smile was fond. “Lots of back and forth about creative expression, respect for the culture of my birth and political expedience.”

“And what argument could they have against it?” 

“Something about ruining my perfect skin.” A peaceful king in as peaceful a time as Beleriand had known, but still there were white scars plain upon his skin, as Gil-Galad refastened his tunic. “You know how parents are.”

“I do.” His own parents had wept horribly to see him go to court, he to the Noldor, his brother to their mannish kin in Dor-lómin for all that they were both long grown.

“They relented in the end. My father even wanted one himself, of an eagle, but Blacmeg wouldn’t have it.”

“Cultural appropriation?” said Elrond who, given his lineage contained two houses of the Edain, two kindreds of the Eldar and a Maia besides, thought himself uniquely qualified to comment. 

“What she said was ‘‘aven’t you stolen enough shit from us?’” said the king, in uncanny imitation of his general. “But the sentiment was there.”

“They stole you.” Elrond’s mother had taught him better manners than that, but the thought of it tugged at him, like a loose thread. “Killed your parents and took you from the field. And you don’t blame them?”

Gil-Galad’s tone had been light and bantering, but now he sobered and Elrond feared he had touched closer than he meant to some well-hidden pain. “I was angry for a while, once I was old enough to understand,” the king said slowly. “It’s hard to stay angry though. If they’d done other than they did - found some way to return me to my people, the man I’d be is a stranger. Not high king of the Noldor to be sure, and not the owner of these fine tattoos. The man I _am_ cannot but love them.”

Elrond considered the many peaces inked upon his skin and though the thread still tugged, he bit his tongue. 


	2. Chapter 2

The nice thing about jovial kings was that they knew a lot about tongues. In particular, they knew when things went unsaid, whether that was inappropriate comments about the fathers of said kings, or even more inappropriate feelings about being able to trace tattoos with something more than eyes.

It was the latter that Gil-Galad chose to act on, when he invited Elrond back his quarters that night. By the time the king had convinced him to forget some of the manners his mother taught him, Elrond not only knew the feel of that dark ink flexing beneath his fingers but had tasted it on his impudent, over-inquisitive tongue.

The king told him curiosity was only to be encouraged.

So Elrond undertook to voice his curiosity about what the king’s fangs might feel like grazing his inner thighs, or what the king’s powerful hands might feel like planted on the small of his back, or what the king’s long, coarse hair might feel like wrapped around his hands.

It turned out it felt like getting fucked really, really good.

Elrond’s mother’s manners, and her grammar, were long gone by the time the king and he had finished with each other.

Elrond lay in a dazed and happy stupor after, his head pillowed on the king’s broad grey chest, fingers tracing the whorls of the union that had changed so much. At the moment it felt secondary to the glory of the union his arse was attesting to, but his mind dwelt on it nonetheless.

“Quite the achievement for any warrior,” he murmured, stroking the swell of the king’s pectoral. “Peace.”

“I’ve always been more of a peacior than a warrior,” said the king cheerfully, his own fingers tangling in Elrond’s loose hair. “But Da insisted I keep in fighting shape anyway. To impress lovely young heralds if nothing else.”

“Oh, your father instructed you on the seduction of your subordinates, did he?”

“His speciality was more ‘cousins’ but nevertheless I picked up a few tricks of the trade.” Gil-Galad grinned. “ ‘Want to come upstairs and look at my skin etchings?’ And here I was told you were a sharp one, Peredhel.”

“I’m very sharp," said Elrond, turning to rub his nose along Gil-Galad’s collarbone. “And I would have been a _fool_ to miss an invitation like that.”

The king laughed and pulled him into a kiss and they were just about to settle in for round two when the door to the king’s chambers burst open.

Immediately, Elrond was flying to his feet, fumbling for his sword. Foolish, _foolish_ to have let it this far from his hand; even in the famous peace of Ereinion Gil-Galad there were those who would harm the king - where were the personal guard? Dead or incapacitated already? - and Elrond prepared himself to die defending his liege, sword in hand even if -

“We weren’t allowed naked guards, in my day,” said a laconic, rumbling voice, and Elrond settled into a fighting stance, sword at the ready despite a distracting draft.

To his surprise, however, Gil-Galad was pushing himself up with no appearance of alarm. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“We haven’t seen you in ages!” said another voice, lighter and brighter and slightly chagrined. “And the door wasn’t locked. But goodness, cover up your companion, won’t you? The poor thing.”

Gil-Galad sat up and tossed a sheet at Elrond, who only just managed to catch it with his hand rather than swiping wildly at it with his sword. He was still disoriented and the adrenaline pumping through him was not helping him figure out what was going on. He knotted the sheet around his waist and properly took in the two figures in the doorway.

There stood a very tall, redheaded individual with a twisted face that was mostly freckle, and a broad-shouldered, handsome figure with shining black braids bound in gold. The latter was wearing a tunic in vivid floral pattern, and a circlet.

Elrond wished the adrenaline would come back. Instead, his blood seemed to have turned to water as he beheld two former high kings of the Noldor - and Gil-Galad’s parents - and he felt dangerously close to a faint.

Fingon - for of course it was he - beamed now that Elrond was more modestly attired and strode forward to clap his son on the shoulder. “Gil! You scamp! Do introduce us to your friend, tell us everything, shall we order in some dinner?”

Maedhros - for who else could it be - followed his husband across the room, just as unfazed by the swaying, half-naked Elrond. “You could have locked the door, lad. You don’t want just anyone walking in.”

“I don’t,” agreed the king. “Not that locks stop you two. I thought you weren’t visiting for another month. Pa, what in the hells are you wearing?”

“It’s cultural,” explained Fingon, as Maedhros said, “Cirdan’s folk scammed him into buying it.”

“This is Elrond,” said Gil-Galad, as Fingon straightened his hem regally. “Son of Elwing and Earendil.”

“Ah,” said Maedhros, eyes boring into him.

“Ah!” said Fingon, and stepped forward to wring his hand. Elrond’s sheet slipped. “Bloody wonderful to meet you, great family, I think we may be distant relatives? Safe bet, anyway. How are your parents?”

As Elrond juggled sword, sheet, and the hand of the high king emeritus, and Gil-Galad smirked at him from the bed, he thought that by the end of this he would deserve a tattoo for his valor in the face of adverse circumstances.

At the very _least._

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask us about timelines, we didn't know then and we definitely don't know know. Canon divergence!


End file.
